After Hours
by templremus1990
Summary: The Eleventh Doctor and the imperator of known space gather to discuss vital matters of state. Alcohol intervenes.


**After Hours**

There had been a very important reason for this meeting, but Emperor Ludens Nimrod Kendrick Cord Longstaff XLI had long since forgotten what it was. The same was apparently true of his visitor, who had just reached the final remarks in a protracted discourse regarding the bottle on the banqueting table.

"- and I still say I should've won that drinking contest fair and square, only it turns out two of them were androids. Cheating, when you think about it, but friendly blokes; gave me this as consolation. Here, have some more."

"Ta." They raised their goblets, and the Doctor reclined against the hard white of his chair, legs sliding further forward than was strictly appropriate. One hand waved in the general direction of the door, where the retreating backs of two Royal Guard members were visible.

"So that happens a lot then? People calling you 'majesty' and bowing every time they answer a question?"

"Well, yeah. It's sort of in the job description. Sort of _is_ the job description. All titles come with strings attached. Thought you'd appreciate that, _Doctor_."

To the Emperor's disappointment, the jibe failed to make any noticeable impression. Instead the taller man scrambled back into an upright position, gathering his thoughts along with all four limbs. "Let's stay with 'Porridge'. Much easier, I liked it."

Porridge exhaled slowly through his nose. "I know. Me too."

A silence ensued, during which both parties focused on the task of getting glass to mouth without serious mishap. Porridge was the first to interrupt it. "How's Clara?"

The Doctor flinched slightly at the name. His left foot started to bounce, of its own volition. "Mm. Good. Fine. Bossy. Teaching English, nice little school. Occasionally brings marking with her to the third moon of Poosh, but we're trying to cut down on that."

"It's called 'growing up', Doctor. Happens to most of us eventually." Porridge gestured around the cavernous room by way of illustration. He could feel his thoughts begin to dissipate into an alcoholic miasma, and the search for a follow-on sentence proved unexpectedly tricky.

Through some peculiar misfortune, he found himself saying, "I would've married her if she'd wanted, you know."

"Yes."

"Really? Anything else to offer, apart from 'yes'?"

There was a pause as the Doctor considered this. "…No. Look, never mind. Plenty more fish in the, uh, sky. Or sea. Depends where you're looking, if we're honest, but- a sky. Somewhere." This was not altogether encouraging, but he was away now, and Porridge had neither the skill nor the inclination to stop him. "Open with a joke, do something incredibly clever, invite them back to your spaceship. Served me pretty well so far."

His companion frowned. "And then what?"

A bewildered look passed over the Doctor's face. He tried to shrug, but succeeded only in unbalancing himself again, clutching at an armrest for support. "These chairs have lumps in them. Imperator of known space, and you can't even get yourself any comfy furniture. I'd complain to someone if I were you."

Porridge heaved another long sigh. "You're in the presence of the Emperor. S'not supposed to be _comfy_. That's why we have the crowns and the beheadings and the- big ugly sticks."

"Sceptres."

"Yeah, those. Oh- and I've remembered what else I meant to ask. Can you make it over here next week? There's this trade dell-deli- _mission_ from the Crimson Axoni cluster, and I've got to do the meet-and-greet. Could use a friendly face. Or even just a face. That's the trouble with the gaseous ones; you're never sure where you're supposed to look."

The Doctor's features had rearranged themselves into an expression of intense boredom, or possibly tranquil fury- it was hard to tell at this stage. "You'll be wasting your time, there. Most intransigent race this end of the entire galaxy, the Crimsons. Ask to borrow a pen and the negotiations take a fortnight."

He arrested both legs in the middle of their second bid for freedom and made an effort at standing. It went better than expected, although the floor was being positively churlish by refusing to stay put, and he still wasn't entirely certain where he'd parked. Porridge, his frame collapsed into a discontented slump, was gazing into the middle distance with an intensity usually found among the more serious religious sects. He was also spinning in time with the floor, but the Doctor assumed that this was not deliberate. After some difficulty he located a shoulder, and gave it a sympathetic pat. "Drink lots of water and call me in the morning. I'll work something out."

Porridge brightened. "You're coming back, then?"

"Always." He blinked. The floor calmed a little. "Joke. Clever. Spaceship. Oh, and flowers. Pretty, dead plants, people love 'em. Don't know why, but apparently that's a thing in a surprising number of solar systems. G'night."

"'Night, then."

It really was quite wonderful, Porridge reflected as his guest weaved a path to the exit, how the Universe occasionally came up with people like the Doctor, along with all the sycophants and bureaucrats and trade deli-whatsits. One of these days he would commission the quadrant's top scientists to investigate why such a miracle occurred, and maybe see whether the Universe could be persuaded to do it more often.

For the time being, however, he had other concerns. There was still an eighth of the bottle left.

* * *

When he emerged from tangled sleep, a steward with a head and neck of roughly equal circumference was ushering about fifteen men and women across the room, each one bearing a circlet of blue Reduvian daisies, a sheaf of royal notepaper and a confused expression.

It came as no shock whatever, therefore, when a groundsman burst in two minutes later to announce that he had discovered an intruder trying to vacate the premises through a hedge.

"Babbling about flowers, majesty. Some sort of imperial favour." The groundsman bounced on his heels, in a gratified fashion seemingly calculated for maximum irritation. "Should I interrogate him, your highness?"

Porridge shook his head, wincing at the movement. "Nah. I s'pect he's already suffering enough." Through a pain that reverberated like the drone of a thousand angry Vespiform, he beckoned the nearest visitor forward and plucked the letter from her hand. _Having a party today_, it said. _Please come. Love, the Emperor. _Porridge stared for a long moment, refocused, and stared again. "...Bring him in here this afternoon, though. I might have him executed. Or maybe knighted. Haven't decided yet."


End file.
